


Seeing Might Mean That You Have To Believe

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Choices, Friends to Lovers, Gods, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron seeks revenge for the death of his family. He meets a water god instead. So begins a most unusual courtship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Might Mean That You Have To Believe

**Author's Note:**

> Title is an adapted lyric from 'One of Us' by Joan Osborne.

 

The day was hot again. Agron's feet were starting to falter. He paused and listened. No one was within earshot, no soldiers tracking him yet. He could rest for a while. His waterskin was empty and had been for some hours. His mother's voice came to mind – Fill the skins again. Remember last time you forgot?

 

He closed his eyes, savoured her voice for a moment more, then pushed it away. The pain in his heart was still deep. He could not think of her or his father or Duro for long before the grief and hurt threatened to overwhelm him. He could not let that happen again. He had to live long enough to take true revenge.

 

A new sound distracted him from painful thoughts. Running water. There, past the nearby trees, was a stream. Thank the gods.

 

Agron checked the horizon again. Still no one was within sight. He increased his pace, thinking only of fresh water for his throat and body, of sustenance and bathing at last. He kept his sword ready.

 

There was nobody at the stream. Agron shed his cloak eagerly and had a hand on his waterskin when he heard another noise. Somebody was moving in the water. That wasn't possible. Agron had made sure that he was alone. He gripped the sword's handle and quietened his footsteps. If seen, he could be reported and hunted down.

 

He moved carefully past the branches that shielded his view and reached the stream's bank. A small figure was ankle-deep in the water, bathing their feet. It was a man, young, in breeches and an open vest. His hair was long down his back and he smiled at the water like seeing an old friend. He was beautiful.

 

Agron's mouth dried as he watched. It had been many years since another's form had affected him so. There was something else that drew him though, not just the tranquil eyes and lush mouth. There was something....more to the stranger. Some spark under his flesh that seemed to make him almost glow. Something in the way the water reacted to him. The voice of Agron's mother was urgently trying to rise again.

 

The way they look, they're like us, but they're more. You'll know it when you see one.

 

Agron's heart-rate quickened sharply. He was not looking at a beautiful young man. He was looking at a _yanna_ , a water spirit, a god. He clenched his teeth to stop himself cursing and glanced about. Yes, there was the shrine nearby. It would be his fate that a spirit was present when he forgot to leave an offering before approaching the stream. If the yanna realised, the punishment Agron would suffer would be great.

 

Agron went still in an effort to remain unseen. But surely the god already knew he was there? He was likely toying with Agron, stretching out the unbearable wait before causing torment. His mother had always warned that this would happen; that Agron's appetites would overtake his common sense. She had always been right.

 

But when Agron's gaze darted again to where the spirit was, the _yanna_ was gone. It had disappeared completely. Disappointment prickled at Agron, at being robbed of such beauty to look upon. Some other loss tugged at him too, unrecognisable and aching. He shook it away with difficulty and concentrated on waiting silently for a few moments more, but there was no other sound apart from his own breathing.

 

Agron breathed out heavily. For reasons unknown, the _yanna_ had chosen not to punish him. He would see that unchanged. He cast his eye about and spied fallen wood. Pulling a knife from his pack, he began carving. The spirit's form began to take shape under his skilled fingers – the sharp definition of a cheek, the toned arms, the bewitching smile. When it was completed, Agron placed it on the shrine and recited prayers quickly, thanking the _yanna_ for the gift of the stream and fumbling apologies for the disrespect. He had no wish to be crushed under the heel of a god, not yet.

 

Then he drank and bathed and refilled his skins. The stream truly was a gift.

 

When he slept that night, his dreams were filled with dark hair and smiles and sunlight playing on tan skin.

 

*

 

The next day, Agron walked for miles. This time, he met others on the paths but none gave him any attention. He kept his gaze low and posture hunched. He was simply another serf, tensed and huddled in preparation for whatever inevitable punishment would rain down on him. His sword was hidden under his cloak, his hand ever present on it. He prayed at each shrine he found. Duro would have laughed at him; he had never paid such attention to the faith before.

 

He prayed for safety and success. He might have prayed for more.

 

It wasn't until the day had cooled to evening that he discovered that his prayers had been truly answered. He heard the trickle of a stream and as his heart quickened in memory, he discovered the _yanna_ waiting for him by a fallen tree. Heated delight at looking at such beauty again swept through him, only to dissolve at the possibility that the spirit was there to collect what it was owed for yesterday. At such a thought, Agron spoke without guard.

 

“Fuck.”

 

The spirit looked amused. Agron winced inwardly, though kept his expression outwardly taut. Respect was highly prized by the gods. Any slight was said to provoke deadly consequences. But the _yanna_ did not look angry. He smiled instead, something that sent shivers of pleasure through Agron. The spirit was truly beautiful. Agron drank in the sight, who was to say that he would again be graced by it?

 

“You have nothing to fear. You have not shamed me or yourself.” The spirit held up the carving that Agron had left the day before. “Few tributes are so unique.”

 

Agron managed to nod, his heart feeling as though it was beating out of his chest. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

 

“You did not.” The spirit moved closer, his gaze intent on Agron as though he could see Agron's insides. “What are you called?”

 

Agron cleared his throat. “Agron.”

 

“Agron.”

 

The spirit sounded out his name as though tasting it. Agron shivered at the thought. His eyes stayed hungrily fixed on the _yanna_. How did you ask a god its name? He wet his lips and tried.

 

“What do I....?”

 

“My names are many. To you, I am Nasir.”

 

Agron nodded slowly. Silence fell as the two drank each other in. Agron became aware of just how close they were when Nasir lifted a hand and cupped his jaw. His fingers were cool and firm and the sensation of skin on skin nearly undid Agron. He bit his lip hard, to concentrate on something else. How could just the mere sight of another and the feel of a hand to cheek cause such headiness and heat in him? Nasir's fingers shifted and Agron felt a brief bright touch to his temple. Then the spirit stepped back, the small space between them already feeling too great.

 

“Be well, Agron. When you next find water, you will also find me.”

 

With a last heated look, the spirit turned and walked into the thicket. His footsteps were silent. He was gone.

 

Agron took a deep breath. Fuck.

 

*

 

After a night to rest on his thoughts, Agron woke with something of a plan. He would walk to the nearest water temple. He would have the greatest chance of finding answers there. He despised visiting such places, but the sisterhood there were at least bound by oath to help. And any soldiers looking for him would not think to check the temples, not with his reputation. So Agron gritted his teeth, his head filled with sense memories of Nasir, and began walking.

 

The carving had pleased Nasir. Agron would do all he could to prolong the spirit's favour. So he carved as he walked, water lotuses and lilies forming out of white wood. In the stories his father had once told, spirits often wore their tributes. Agron imagined Nasir with real blooms braided into his hair. It would only increase his otherworldliness. Agron closed his eyes and regretfully pushed the image away – he could not get distracted now and ruin the offering, and wouldn't thinking such things cause the yanna to rage against him?

 

Eventually he reached a place where water pooled in shade. Nasir had said he would be where there was water. Agron's heart shuddered, a strange mix of fear and arousal stirring in him. It was a sensation that had possessed him frequently since he had first spotted Nasir, and it grew more each day. He placed the carved flowers at the shrine. A moment later, Nasir's voice sounded behind him.

 

“For one who does not care for my kind, you take great care with your tributes.”

 

Agron swallowed, his hand reflexively grasping his silver knife. Anger flared up inside him at memories of just why he did not care for the gods. He doubted the rage would ever leave him. Most days, it was all that he felt. It had been that way since Duro's death, until he had met Nasir.

 

Nasir tilted his head expectantly. He was waiting for an answer and the gods did not appreciate lies or honeyed words. So Agron straightened and spoke truth haltingly, tensed and ready for a fight.

 

“Your kind has not treated me well.”

 

He offered nothing more and Nasir did not ask for elaboration. His gaze on Agron was penetrating. Agron felt sure in his bones that Nasir knew what Agron kept hidden – that the gods had not saved his parents when they'd cried out as they were taken away and their lands seized, that they were killed soon after with unanswered prayers on their lips, that no gods had saved Duro when the soldiers had cut him down for the rebellion that Agron had encouraged. Agron stared back, memories hot and painful.

 

Nasir touched the wooden flowers with great gentleness, his smile soft and perfect. Agron's breath stuttered. He had caused that expression. He had made a god smile.

 

Nasir turned to him. “My kind is as varied as yours.”

 

He said no more, only smiling faintly and leaving. It was not an apology or a scolding, but a stating of fact and a caution. Agron let out a breath. His anger still burned but the _yanna_ ’s words cut through it towards half-forgotten teachings – that some gods could move mountains, whilst others could merely conjure fripperies. They did not all have the power over life and death.

 

And Agron had again survived a conversation with a god. The overwhelming sensation of being in Nasir's presence had only increased. It felt like madness, yet Agron yearned to see more of the spirit, to feel more of that heat. No other had ever prompted such a feeling in him. What a fucking joke that he gained such an experience from a god. Agron spat with frustration and confusion.

 

*

 

It was several days before he saw Nasir again. His nights were filled with the god though. Nasir always appeared in his dreams, beguiling and intoxicating and more than willing to be in Agron's arms. Agron woke each time with an ache in his chest. He felt thirsty for more of the spirit. Was it bewitchment? But that was not a water god's way. He tested himself anyway, cutting his own skin with silver. He merely bled without burning. He was himself without enchantment.

 

Never before had Agron wanted to drink somebody in so much. His mother's voice came to him in fogged moments between sleep and wakefulness. She used to say that she felt heartsick when parted from her husband, that he filled the hollow places inside of her.

 

Agron was beginning to understand her words.

 

*

 

At the next water stop, Agron did not reach for his knife. Instead, he grasped wildflowers. His father's stories had stayed with him, and had awoken memories of his mother and cousins braiding blossoms for festival days. As a child, his hands had been too clumsy and impatient to be truly successful at such delicate craft. Now his fingers were larger and they shook with pain of memories as he worked, but he completed the rings, ragged though they were. He stroked the petals once before leaving them at the shrine. Was Nasir's skin that soft?

 

His heart twisted. His mother had always said he was foolhardy and here he was, dreaming of touching a god. Despite how foolish it was, his heart was filled with such stirrings. The only feeling he'd known this strong before was love for his family, then the fire of anger and grief at their passing, but this burned differently.

 

Nasir still hadn't appeared when Agron eventually fell to slumber. Disappointment had pained him, but he had shoved it aside. Here at last was proof; the yanna had been toying with him, no doubt delighting in Agron's turmoil and bewildered heat. The gods were always cruel.

 

Hours into sleep, a sound woke Agron. He started into wakefulness, hand on his knife, and beheld Nasir, sitting by the river with his feet dipped in the water. Happiness at the sight coursed through Agron, but he frowned, distrust winning over joy.

 

“Is this a dream?”

 

Nasir shook his head. He was wearing Agron's pitiful attempts at flower braiding around his wrists and forearms. Agron's heart leapt at the sight, but his anger remained. He burned at the possibility that he was being toyed with, that his emotions were being pulled at to please the god. He would not be a plaything for anyone, god or man. Nasir looked at him, as still as a stone in the rushing tide of Agron's anger.

 

“You please me, Agron,” he said simply.

 

He was answering a question not asked but obvious in Agron’s expression – why was Nasir here? For sport? There were no lies in his tone or face, but gods were known for only revealing what they wanted seen. Yet there was something undone in Nasir's expression, something raw as he looked at Agron that caused the hair on the back of Agron's neck to stand up. Some things could not be faked, not even by the gods.

 

How Duro would have laughed – _wanting to fuck a god, brother? Why not ask for the stars instead?_

 

Nasir gently touched the scar on Agron's chest. Agron knew his own expression was now unstoppably twisted by sorrow and grief as he thought of his family. Did gods understand that emptiness and rage? Did they understand family at all? Did they know the hurt and splendour of caring? As Agron's mind became clouded by pain of loss, he barely registered Nasir's arms around him. He was aware of the gradual slipping-away of the tension inside him though, like a fist unclenching. None of his father's stories had ever told of gods behaving like this.

 

As sleep claimed him once more, he felt the lingering press of lips to his forehead. In the morning, it all seemed like a dream, but the cool sensation on his skin where a god's mouth had touched claimed otherwise.

 

*

 

The water temple was quiet. Agron was thankful for that. He left his bag and weapons inside the door. No soldier would dare spill blood on blessed ground. He walked uncertainly to the alter. It had been many years since he had visited a temple and now he was here, he was unsure what to say. How did you ask about a god's affections? About emotions stirred by one? He felt as stupid as a child again. Surely asking such things would only cause outrage.

 

He was considering a quick prayer and an even quicker leaving, when one of the attendants approached him. The studs on her necklace marked her as a little higher than a novice, her hair covered and her smile welcoming. Any words she was going to offer died on her lips when she looked properly at his face. Her eyes widened.

 

“The Mother has been expecting you,” she said once recovered. “Come.”

 

Agron opened his mouth to protest – she was mistaken, no one knew he would be coming here today. But she shook her head and insistently lead the way past the alter and the heavy curtain behind it to a small staircase that curved upwards. Agron's mouth dried. To meet a temple elder was rare. They were only ever public in matters of great importance. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

 

The attendant guided him to a small room. Standing near some wall tapestries in there was the Temple Mother, in purple robes with her hair intricately braided. A silver brooch pinned at her shoulder displayed her standing and something in her face gave the impression of being both young and old. The way she looked at him made his skin itch. She dismissed the attendant, her frank gaze never leaving Agron. He stared back unflinchingly despite his discomfort. Of anyone, the Mother would have answers for him.

 

The Mother stepped closer. Agron held his ground.

 

“You have met one.”

 

Her voice was strong and immovable. Like the gods, she would broker no lies. She would likely sense if he held back words too. To be an elder supposedly meant being touched by the gods' powers. Agron believed it of her. She was clearly halfway from this world already.

 

He managed to nod in reply. All of his words were balled up into _heat-pain-love-longing-can-this-be-possible_. The Mother smiled. Part of Agron relaxed. If the elder was not worried….

 

The Mother gestured to his face. “He marked you, a thing not done without weight.”

 

Agron’s fingers went to his forehead, to his temple – the places where Nasir had left behind a cool brightness. Nasir had **marked** him. Something primal and hot inside Agron responded to that. He swallowed it down. He was marked by a god. What did that make him? Claimed? As an amusement? A pet? Or….

 

“No harm has come to you since the marking.”

 

The Mother asked without expecting response, but Agron nodded anyway. No one had questioned him, let alone raised weapon against him, since he had first spied Nasir. The spirit had protected him. His thoughts spun with questions and heat. The Mother watched him patiently, until words spilled, wrecked and yearning, from his lips.

 

“What does it mean?”

 

The Mother smiled.

 

*

 

Agron waited. His dreams and waking thoughts were filled with Nasir – of soft lips on his skin, of drinking from the mouth of a god. There was an ache inside him still. The god had a way of consuming his attention, of stilling the ragged edges left by his family’s death. He’d never thought he’d gain such a semblance of peace. It all felt too impossible, to be so gifted after the blood and pain and shit. But the Mother had been adamant.

 

In Agron’s hand was another wood carving. This one was of himself. He rubbed one of the arms, checking again the quality of smoothness, then another hand covered his. Agron inhaled sharply. The simple touch had brought burning to his skin. He turned and there was Nasir, Agron's wooden flower tributes braided into his hair and his expression stripped of any poise.

 

“You’re here.”

 

Agron inclined his head, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to grab hold of Nasir, to press him close. Nasir’s hand echoed that desire, travelling to Agron’s face. His thumb touched Agron’s lips. Agron kissed it, unable to resist the call of Nasir’s skin. Then, when encountering no resistance, he hungrily drew the thumb into his mouth. Nasir’s breaths became heavy and laboured. Everything about him was unravelling. It was glorious to witness and to know that he was the cause.

 

A few more breathless moments and Nasir leaned in, his thumb dragging a damp path down Agron’s chin, and kissed him. He licked into Agron’s mouth. There was eagerness paired with the softness. Agron felt brimming with heat, the warmth of Nasir touching places inside him that had been cold since Duro had been struck down. He keened into Nasir’s lips. He needed more.

 

Nasir pushed at his broad shoulders and Agron fell back onto the river bank. Nasir immediately climbed on top, skin on glorious skin. The relief of it was like a fist to the gut. The sweet grass crushed beneath them smelled pungent and Nasir spoke words in a strange tongue against his flesh. Both of them were greedy, craving more touch as hands explored.

 

_“He could have taken you in that first moment. But he didn’t. And if he wished you dead, you would be dead long before now. Yannas do not play games. When a god makes a choice, it will not be undone. You are his choice.”_

 

You are his choice.

 

The Mother had told him a great deal that day. She’d spoken of the gods living in this world, like _yannas_ and snow _diras_ and the _nuckies_ that felled trees. They were the gods that loved the earth and the water and nurtured it all and kept sharp eyes on the flesh that lived off it. Many of them had loved mortals before, and many would again.

 

Most of those stories did not end well. Of course they didn’t. But not all gods were the same.

 

_Yannas are faithful and do not tie their hearts to another lightly._

 

And Agron had seen the effect he had on Nasir - a truth and a thing to treasure. He hadn't had anything to treasure for many months.

 

_“Yannas make their own amusements. They do not desire us for that.”_

 

Agron slid a hand down Nasir’s chest. The flesh was warm and inviting and Agron could not stop.

 

_“Yannas love unyieldingly when that love is returned, as unstoppably as the rolling of the seas.”_

 

Nasir clawed at him and moaned, causing an answering rumble in Agron’s chest.

 

_“He’s made his choice and waits for you to make yours.”_

 

Nasir had chosen him. He wore Agron's tributes in his hair and had marked Agron’s skin.

 

Agron’s mother had always wondered what would truly make him happy, what would satisfy his insatiable appetite. What would fill his hollow places.

 

The next morning, two sets of footprints led away from the riverbank and into the horizon.

 

_-the end_


End file.
